


Hana's Lemonade Stand

by thtzwhatuthink



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst-Free, Bottom McCree, Grinding, Hanzo Top, Humor, M/M, Riding, Strangers to Lovers, dancing to 70s music, excessive use of meat innuendos, handjobs, house party scene, neighborhood AU, the only thing McCree wears to bed is his hat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thtzwhatuthink/pseuds/thtzwhatuthink
Summary: Reyes is grilling when Hana sells a strange looking lemonade to the new neighbors from Japan. Jesse wants a glass, at the expense of Sombra's stripper money and his dignity. During a proceeding house party Jesse learns Hana is simultaneously the worst and the best wingwoman because the man walked off the dance floor with his favorite hat.





	1. Garbage Can, No Lid

**Author's Note:**

> This is my interpretation of a crack fic if I knew what a crack fic was. Enjoy.

There’s a new saloon in town. It was Hana’s new lemonade stand.

Jesse didn’t know what she was raising money for, however as the heat of Reyes’ massive foreman grill hit him in waves the only thing he could think about was getting his hands on a cold tall glass of that overly sweetened acidic beverage. There’s a farfetched wish in the back of his mind that maybe _, just maybe_ , she’s serving hard lemonade.

Reyes barks at him to fork up another steak from the marinating container, and McCree crushes the thought.

Robotically he slaps the steak on the grill with tongs, Reyes giving half-assed thanks before shifting the meat to right above the coals.

McCree’s attention returns to the lemonade stand, surprised when there’s a new figure standing near it. There was another pitcher pulled from under the table, darker and golden in color. That figure’s unfamiliar, but they have quite the nice ass from what McCree could make out. There’s a glint of polarized sunlight reflecting from the grill that disturbed his vison regardless of his hat.

Reyes notices Jesse’s distracted and looks up from his hot meat.

“Who is that?” Jesse questions.

“New neighbors from Japan,” There’s a pause and a sizzle as Reyes flips another steak. “Shitty-mada’s, Shi-murder’s or something.”

Both watch as the man pays Hana in a weird not-American currency for her weird not-lemonade drink. They watch the mysterious new neighbor take a sip, raise his cup in thanks, and then bow before walking back to his own house.

Which turns out to be right next to the shit show of the Reyes household; the finest damn household in the cul-de-sac because McCree rooms there, as does Sombra. Her tech liters the room, her color choices have gradually seized every ounce of technology in the living room and every kitchen appliance.

Not Reyes’ grill though, and that’s why he doesn’t give a shit about her late-night remodeling.

A steak is flipped, sizzling pleasantly. A waft of savory beef graces McCree’s nostrils as he sees the new neighbor emerge with another person. Green hair, same build. Must’ve been related. The older figure beckons the younger to the lemonade stand.

McCree’s reminded of that lemonade, and even more so of how he doesn’t have one in his hand.

“Old man, you got quarters or singles?”

“Sombra keeps the stripper money in the urn above the fireplace. Get me a cup too.”

McCree tips his hat and heads off to the living room; mentally filing away the new knowledge that there were no ashes in the memorial urn labeled “Grandma”. As his hand barely fits into the urn his fingers hit a slightly dusty wad of cash and McCree shakes his head.

Sombra was something else.

McCree elects to head out back again, letting Reyes know he found the moola and would return with a drink shortly. He elects to hop the fence instead of opening the gate like a normal civilian. Except the serape catches on a protruding part of the old wooden waist-high fence. Eyes widen and his weight launches downward, serape unraveling against the force; flying off his shoulders.

Combat experience kicks in, and he ducks into a roll. Smooth recovery.

There’s a “tsk” from behind. The sweet laugh of Hana at a distance in front of him. Jesse looks up to see her giggly, and the two new neighbors leaned in close, the green haired one smirking, the other hovered his hand above his mouth; least he had the decency to hide his amusement. McCree leaves his pride and serape hanging on the fence, unsalvageable.

He sets a confident pace to the stand, waving Sombra’s singles in the air to Hana. His pride elects to ignore the two men, and he strides past them. A request for two iced cups of lemonade is enthusiastically hollered to Hana, regardless of proximity.

Hana’s enthusiasm elevates to match his, and she over-pours the foggy yellow pitcher. McCree tips her an extra twenty dollars in singles for the fifty-cent lemonade. Hana’s face morphs through emotions once he slams it down on her plastic table: first shock, then awe, happiness, and finally smugness.

“This isn’t your money, is it?” She questions, smirk on her lips.

McCree winks and tips his hat again, before scooping up the two cups now overfilled with lemonade and ice, smoothly pivoting on his heel. He’s facing the mysterious neighbors again, and the question of what they’re drinking is on the tip of his tongue.

Jesse opts to turn around to ask Hana instead, and she chirps:

“Dongfang Meiren tea. Can’t find it in the states.”

McCree calls upon the cogwheel gnomes in his head to rummage through his bartending knowledge.

“Hey isn’t that oh-long tea?”

“ _Oolong_ ,” She annunciates the ‘Oooo’ sound, “but I’m honestly shocked you knew that.”

He takes a sip of his lemonade before adding,

“I had a coworker who really had a thing for that tea mixed with bourbon and pear juice. They had a foreign degree in tea or some shit, but they were also an alcoholic.”

A firm yet hushed voice, to the point of husky speaks up from behind him. The timbre indicated the older man speaking,

“To undergo training for tea ceremonies is highly honorable where we come from.”

The two men walk up beside McCree. Naturally, he looks over in their direction and spills a little lemonade when he sees who spoke. Their face no longer hidden by a bemused hand is a sight to behold. Broad brows that furrowed to aging wrinkles, arching cheekbones and a carved jawline. The beard accented the resting scowl, coupled with a widow’s peak that made his expression more pointed. Lips animated and delicately nude against the rim of his iced tea cup.

He did not live an easy life, that is McCree’s first takeaway.

The second takeaway is he’s breathtaking.

Hana makes a “Tch” sound, and that draws everyone’s attention to her. The sound likely made up for McCree’s silence as a response but looking up he found her eyes on him.

Smug, “I know something I shouldn’t” eyes.

McCree’s face must have given his thoughts away. He could feel the heat on his face, and it wasn’t from the sun or humidity. He tilts his face and thus his hat down to hide his eyes, but the damage has been done. That knowing look is shifted from Jesse to the green-haired man, and a series of non-verbal cues are exchanged between both.

Abruptly, Hana begins an introduction.

“I should probably introduce you guys. Shimada’s, this is Jesse McCree. He also responds to cowboy and moron.” Jesse gains a confused, slightly offended look which Hana smoothly ignores. “McCree, the one that looks like a carrot is Genji and—“ Genji cuts her off, throwing an arm around the elder figure and finishing Hana’s statement.

“This is Hanzo, _my single brother_.”

McCree isn’t sure if he means he only has one brother or if Hanzo was on the market. Either way, he’s been graced with the name of this divine man and that alone Jesse is grateful for. Hat still pointed down, he notices Hanzo step on Genji’s sandaled foot.

There’s a yowl and Hana’s laugh again.

McCree glances up, and the older brother is stoic with his expression, not showing any indication that he did just inflict pain. Eyes meet, and there’s a curt nod. Suddenly eyes widen, and Hanzo calls out:

“ _Duck._ ”

McCree’s late to respond, so Hanzo does it for him; side stepping and arm flying up to catch incoming projectile of a recently used grill spatula, aimed with alarming accuracy for the back of McCree’s head. Jesse.exe processes the arm raised with lightning speed toward the back of his head, and then turning around, acknowledges the spatula he’s caught about five centimeters from impact with his body.

Eyes focus past the unexpected projectile, and he sees Reyes standing behind his ratty white picket fence, holding up the inside of the trashcan lid with the words, “My lemonade, pls” written in barbeque sauce on the inside.

“You could have damn near killed me, Reyes!” McCree hollers toward the old man.

The distant figure shrugs. What an ass.

McCree’s line of sight shifts up the savior’s arm, noting a hand tattoo peeking out of long sleeves that conceal where the design presumably ends around his wristwatch. His expensive looking wristwatch. That wasn’t the main sight to behold though, what really takes the cake for McCree is the size and shape of the arm muscles that prevented a hospital trip for him.

Dowse McCree in unchlorinated pool water and kill him with a brain eating amoeba because within two minutes of meeting his new neighbor he’s developed a crush.

Hanzo could have the personality of an unsalted saltine and McCree would work to find common ground. Although far too starstruck to directly speak with this man, McCree manages out an appreciative thank you and the best grateful smile he could muster. He shuffles both lemonades into one hand while the other flies up behind his hat to simultaneously fix positioning as well as rub the area the spatula should have connected with his head.

Hanzo twirls the spatula before bowing slightly and holding it out as if in offering. There’s a snicker from the other two parties present. Hanzo giving side eye to his brother as McCree shoves the spatula under his armpit, one lemonade per hand again. Repeating his thanks interlaced with soft chuckles. God, was he fucked.

Jesse better get back to Reyes before he frisbees the trashcan lid.

* * *

 

The next time McCree runs into Hanzo it’s when he comes home to an impromptu Sombra house party. The woman knew too many people. The foyer was packed, body to body. Yeah, the space opened and people dispersed more evenly, but McCree still had to finagle his way through several who couldn’t hold their liquor. Red solo cups, the American Party staple, littered open surfaces. The plastic cups were practically accessories to outfits.

Jesse didn’t like it one bit.

He loves the atmosphere, but he had to deal with drunkards on nearly nightly basis as a bartender. Techno and traditional clubbing did not suit his style, but the upbeat and pleasant vibes Lucio blared through the ludicrously expensive surround sound were something he could work with. He felt the bass in his chest and his strides fell to the beat. The dancefloor, not yet seen but clearly felt and heard soon came into view as he rounded a corner.

His eyes fall upon a figure in the middle of the dancefloor.

Strobe lights flash at an obnoxious frequency, but they do nothing but bolster this man’s image. Shirtless man. _Well-built_ shirtless man. Arms like Russian bodybuilders, abs like a six pack of hamburger buns. McCree’s eyes are most drawn to this man’s tattoo. A massive arm sleeve of dragons, presumably one of those sacred tattoos that can only be required in a temple at the top of a difficult to get to mountain. A tattoo that’s earned through troubles. Imbued spirits carefully selected to protect its bearer. Briefly, Jesse wonders what two blue dragons are supposed to mean symbolically.

He was a chiseled and clean-cut man amidst a mess of teenagers. The gray strands framing his face give hints to his age.

The man himself was a time anomaly to the dancefloor, except for what he adorned on his face.

Rayban shades.

The room was dimly lit save for the strobe lights, dance floor tiles, and glowing LED’s of electronics.  McCree concludes there is no need for shades apart for the aura of coolness to contrast how smoking hot he is.

Then there’s that hip roll. Jesse be damned.

Seeing a sheen of sweat highlight every ab muscle in pairs was morally wrong. Downright rude. Jesse doesn’t know what to do with himself but move toward that man.

An expensive watch glints from a stage light in Jesse’s direction. That watch seems very familiar, and it clicks.

_Hanzo_. Lemonade stand hot man has evolved into dancefloor hot man featuring less clothing. Jesse groaned inwardly. This man was so physically attractive to McCree it was painful. The cowboy doesn’t know when his boots crossed the thresh hold from hardwood flood to LED tile floor but he registers he’s fast approaching Hanzo.

His presence is acknowledged; Hanzo turning to face him although his body rolls continue.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon.” McCree calls out.

He sees rather than hears Hanzo make a “Huh” motion with his mouth. The music was too loud, and the lean in was indicative that he didn’t hear. Hanzo hip rolls lessen slightly but he doesn’t stand still. McCree repeats his statement while realizing how obscure he looks as the only one on the dancefloor not moving. He alternates lifting his shoulders a little, but by no means is enthusiastic about it.

Hanzo leans in further, invading personal space bubble. McCree’s not mad in the slightest.

A flash of periwinkle and pink leather zoom by behind Hanzo, and suddenly Hanzo’s face morphs into one of surprise and the unbalanced stance collides with McCree’s chest.

He was pushed.

Hands are at Jesse’s torso in an instant. His own arms lift to help prop Hanzo somewhat upright. The steady techno base with the dancefloor as its heartbeat is abruptly cut off.

Everyone looks up to the booth to question the silence, including McCree and Hanzo.

That flash of periwinkle and pink moments before has now materialized on the elevated impromptu booth. Hana in her signature leather jacket shoves Lucio to the side via her hip, several rather worn vinyl record cases in hand.

In one smooth motion, she rolls out a vinyl from the case on top and hands the rest of the stack to Lucio. The devious woman hits something on the turntables and clicks the record into place.

The needle hits, and it takes a moment for the song to pick up. Hana takes the opportunity to lean into the DJ mic, aviators flashing with the strobe lights.

“DJ D.va here with a few special unrequested requests. You know who you are.” She winks out into the crowd.

The sound of a gong getting struck fills the room. DJ D.va isn’t looking at McCree but as “Jungle Boogie” by Kool & The Gang starts, he knows the records were for him and that the push was intentional.

* * *

 

Hanzo is taken back by the solid muscle he’s collided into. Alarmed by the abrupt music stop, change in DJ, and now the current song that just began. However, he sees McCree laugh charmingly at the change in song selection and becomes okay with it all. Eyes crinkling in the corners, toothy smile framed by an unkempt beard and smile lines. Hanzo watches the man visibly relax. He feels muscles release through his hands still lingering on Jesse’s waist. Then he feels hips move. The awkward shoulder movements loosen up.

The proximity of still leaning on McCree enabled Hanzo to hear him call out,

“This is one of my favorite songs!”

Cue a weird screech by the lead singer. That’s McCree’s cue to grab Hanzo and yank him upright to eye level but not at all away from him.

Those hip gyrations from earlier return, but Jesse’s now the one doing them. The funky beat was persuading Hanzo’s hips to do the same.

There’s something visceral in the smile McCree shot him when his hips and chest began to mirror his movements. It ignited Hanzo’s blood; adrenalin tears through him. He feels alive and even more so where the front of his body brushed against McCree’s.

McCree’s mouth is suddenly hot and wet sounding besides Hanzo’s ear.

“Gimme a minute to cool off.”

Jesse pulls away, grooving on his own accord all the while unbuttoning his black bartending uniform.

Hanzo realizes he could stare if he wanted to, forgetting that he had sunglasses on to block out the strobe lights that gave him headaches.

He came here to have a good time, and damn it all if he wasn’t going to get that. The strange hairy cowboy in front of him promised a good time with how he was simultaneously dancing and stripping his shirt off. The hair that peeked out from underneath the absurd cowboy hat was a warm brown even in the cool-toned purple lighting of the party. The hair on his chest was equally perplexing with how inviting it looked over thick muscle. As Hana’s whistling faintly registered in the back of Hanzo’s mind, eyes not once peeling from the gaudy man before him, he ponders if the McCree was a bouncer with that kind of body.

Certainly not straight muscle, but the combination of lean and fat against a rough looking exterior would be quite the immovable object in a bar fight.

McCree’s body rolls are something else, the roll ending in his hips with an obnoxious gold-plated belt now punctuating his air thrusts. Hanzo doesn’t even catch his own body imitating the cowboy’s motions until it’s too late, so he lets go. McCree’s quick to catch on, swishing his hips as he points in a diagonal motion. Grinning victoriously when Hanzo mimics even that motion.

With the help of the DJs, the song morphs straight into “Boogie Wonderland” by Earth, Wind, & Fire without missing a beat.

McCree makes one step forward, and Hanzo is enamored enough by the man’s charm to also step forward.

There was at most eight centimeters of space between them. Body rolling fell into a push and pull motion. McCree brought his shoulders forward. Hanzo brought his back. Their bellies rolled as one and not against each other. If McCree pushed his hips forward Hanzo pulled them back, although a moment of this passes and Hanzo is tempted to go off beat just to grind on him.

McCree lifted an arm up to tilt his cowboy hat forward, hiding his face, and holding his hat there. This action added a degree of promiscuousness to how McCree currently looked. Both to Hanzo and to the general audience, although for different reasons. The surrounding populace sees an older hot guy grinning, shrouded by the brim of an oddly specific cowboy aesthetic. Only Hanzo sees the playful brown eyes that remind him of pools of melted chocolate. The man was certainly hot enough to melt chocolate, and Hanzo isn’t so sure what kind of hot he’s thinking of as they slipped out of sync with the hip gyrations. Both are aware that their current predicament is blatant front-facing crotch grinding.

Yet Hanzo doesn’t stop. Neither does McCree.

McCree clad only in black work pants, signature belt, cowboy boots, and his favorite hat is oozing confidence. He was enjoying himself too much, knew it, and was living for it. The grin was contagious.

The fucking wink is too much for Hanzo.

Hanzo whips around, and continues dancing away from McCree. No doubt looking less sweaty and frazzled from dancing but more flushed and a little turned on. He’s surprised when he feels a back press up against his. Dancing back-to-back seemed like a coordinated effort only achievable on film and through choreography. However, the beat shifted to “Miss You” by The Rolling Stones and their hips coincided in movement effortlessly. He had no idea when his hands were well extended in front of him, cursed by the beat to move on their own accord. Hanzo feels McCree’s shoulder blades moving as well in time.

Dancing on the same wavelength.

The sweat, the feel of muscles against muscles, the heat, all perfect only in the moment. An experience like none before for Hanzo. When the chorus hits McCree moves away, weight shifting over slowly enough for Hanzo to catch on. The newly found freedom allows Hanzo to slowly turn in a circle while gyrating his hips. Now facing McCree again, it’s evident the man is definitely not looking up at his face. Jesse was shameless, and Hanzo fucking loves it.

Hanzo continues spinning around.

The way Jesse grabs Hanzo’s hip once facing away from him again is timed with the beat. They’re in closer contact than before now, and McCree is not-so-subtle trying his best to grind into Hanzo’s butt. It’s oddly charming, enough to the point where is impossible for Hanzo to stifle a laugh at the endeavor.

McCree might not hear the laugh over the music, but he can see it in the half angle he has of Hanzo’s face. He can feel it in the way the muscles tighten above his grip. McCree’s first response is the laugh is condescending, but he’s wiser than that. The laugh was welcoming. Hanzo’s looking back at him by this point; vibrant white smile and taunting eyes. Eyebrows raise ever so slightly and suddenly the butt Jesse is grinding into has its own substantially pleasing rhythm.

McCree’s hooked—enough to take his hat off and place it on Hanzo’s head.

When Hanzo looks back and tips the hat in mock-gesture, still grinding, Jesse is absolutely convinced Hanzo looks better in the hat than he does. Never mind that it’s his favorite hat, McCree realizes this vixen probably looked better than him in anything he wore.

Probably looked even better with nothing on.

That thought does not help McCree’s current pants situation. He tries his hardest to focus on his hat. The focus becomes a lot easier when there’s no longer a butt in front of him.

Once Hanzo collected his prize he decided to head home, before McCree would change his mind about passing on his hat. He gracefully steps off the dancefloor, turning to look at McCree staring dumbfounded behind him. Tilting the obnoxious hat in thanks and goodbye became irresistible, and Hanzo caves. The wounded puppy eyes expression is oh so worth. Maybe he was a bit of a sadist.

Cool night air hits Hanzo’s face, he takes the liberal opportunity to step on Reyes crisp grass and cut across his lawn.

Meanwhile, that wounded puppy look promptly shifted from where Hanzo said goodbye—with _his_ hat—to the DJ booth. Where Hana stands, bent fully over the turntables with elbows propping up her face. She blows and pops a pink bubble before pouting back to McCree. She was clearly watching the whole event unfold.

Lucio is standing next to her, headphones on only for a moment before he plays a very brief sad saxophone song as a joke, while also throwing a pout at McCree. Drunkards appropriately break out into air saxophoning, and upon closer inspection Gabe and Sombra are a part of the air musicians.

McCree opts to resort to his room for the rest of the night before he see’s anything weirder and or involving less clothing with his housemates.

The next day proceeds like déjà vu. McCree finds himself in the backyard again. Reyes is opting to have steak again for dinner, the fourth time in a row this week. McCree doesn’t question him, merely opening the marinating cooler for Reyes to have quick access to his beloved beef.

“What kind of cut is it today?”

“Tenderloin, only the finest after hangovers.” Reyes overturns the gas knob on the monstrosity of a grill and flames sore from below the grate to nearly eye level. Reyes has this brief maniacal expression from McCree’s sideview before he reduces the flame. Casually Reyes tacks on,

“Speaking of which, I saw you tending to your loins last night on the dance floor—” McCree groans, this was the last subject he wanted to bring up. “Hey, I just wanted to know if you did successfully pound his meat or if you never got to tenderizing.”

“Nothing further than dancing happened, Reyes. In fact, he left mid-dance and stole my best hat!”

Reyes presses down on the steak using the same spatula he nearly killed McCree with prior. The beef sizzles pleasantly. The smell wafts its way to their noses with the gentle breeze. The far too gentle breeze for the too damn hot weather and extra hot grill.

McCree begins to strip off the layers on his upper half.

“Do you mean the same hat that is on that man’s head, standing next to Hana’s lemonade stand?”

“That son of a bit—“ McCree finally gets his shirt off over his head and squints heatedly across the cul-de-sac, words falling short at the sight. Lo and behold there’s the elusive hunk of beef named Hanzo. Wearing harem-style shorts, flip flops and socks, and _his damn hat_. It wasn’t color coordinated with the rest of his outfit; at least Jesse has a matching theme. However, beyond the outfit Hanzo was yet again breathtaking.

It’s an experience looking at someone under strobe lights and shifting neon hues in all their glory, portrayed like a captivating stop-motion figurine. Motion doesn’t really exist with high frequency strobing, you see shutter stock frames instead of fluid movement. Forced to feel them move rather than watch them. McCree loved it, however Hanzo appeared unreal in the night life setting. His attitude and style are what make him attractive but they’re the same factors that make him not belong in a clubbing scenario. Butt against McCree’s groin, living it up to seventies funk wearing shades in a dark room for god knows what reason.

It had to have been a dream.

But then again, it couldn’t have. He has a missing hat for proof.

The same hat that is on Hanzo’s very real head, who is standing on the opposite lawn. One arm golden in complexion and another rich with ink, toned muscles rippling beneath each. McCree blinks. A necklace comes into view, dangling between two delicious pecks in a dip that trails all the way down his muscles to a tempting happy trail. Admittedly there were scars across that toned body, obvious at a distance and enough of them to declare fight wounds rather than surgical. None of the large scars look fresh. They don’t diminish his flawless appearance, rather they add to it.

_“Looks like he stole your heart too.”_ Reyes interrupts his thoughts.

McCree sputters a weak form of denial before deflating and swearing under his breath. Reyes does nothing more than chuckle, forking over the largest expensive cut of steak onto a paper plate, and shoves it over to McCree.

“Take a couple of plastic forks and this knife with you. Go over there and offer some to Hana. The shitty-mada if he has taste, will follow the scent. Tell him how much meat you like and how red you’ll take it.”

McCree chokes, face going red as he has much of a thought to cough into his shoulder and not over the plate in his hands.

“Hope you don’t choke that easily on his—“ Jesse loudly intervenes, “ _Thanks_ old man, I get it.” Hurriedly he makes his way through the fence gate, mindful to not drop the important cargo or almost fall on his ass this time. There’s a click behind him as the gate closes, the breeze picks up as he enters the broader clearing of the road.

Hana shouts a greeting once his pathway is directed for her lemonade stand.

Jesse breaks out into a grin. Hana’s enthusiasm always brought the best out of him. Despite no money in hand Hana pours a glass of lemonade for him as he sets down the plate of steak on the plastic table.

“Gabe wanted me to share this one with ya.”

The old man was right in that Hanzo would follow the savory smell, appearing right next to Hana as McCree begins to cut the steak. With practiced ease he cuts the steak without looking, instead opting to glance up at his hat on Hanzo. The condition was thankfully unaltered, nor abused. Jesse although relieved realizes by now he must look like he’s just staring at Hanzo.

He's also cutting into the paper plate, very slowly.

Eyes snap back down to the steak and he resumes cutting it with renewed focus while asking, “Would you like to try old man’s finest beef, Hanzo?”

No verbal response is heard, so Jesse looks up for a reaction, limiting himself to merely a glance. Hanzo is staring down in his direction, bottom lip bitten. It’s unclear if he’s staring down at Jesse with that look or if he’s eyeing the meat that seductively. Jesse’s getting sweaty.

“How is it marinated?” Hanzo casually questions, as if he didn’t look like he was going to devour Jesse and the steak together just moments prior.

“First rubbed dry, then pounded until the juices oozed out,” McCree decides to pause his statement and take a bite of a piece he just cut off that was calling his name. The array of flavors that floods his mouth causes him to groan and curse quietly on his breath before continuing, “Then, soaking in its own _meat juice—_ ” The knife produces a scraping noise from cutting too close to the fork, “I pour my own special marinade over and hand massage the liquid in.”

McCree offers forks sticking out from between his fingers like wolverine claws. “Marinades overnight, then Reyes’ slaps that baby over the grill next day.” Hanzo retrieves a fork with a quiet “Thanks,” while Hana questions,

“Why do you prep the meat and old man does the fun cooking part?”

Hanzo forks a delectable piece, one that McCree was about to stab himself. Mindlessly Jesse notes that Hanzo gracefully held the meat between his teeth and gently pulled the fork away. Chewing with mouth closed, respectably.

McCree’s response to Hana’s question is a soft chuckle proceeding by the statement, “I treat my meat right. Ya’see, if you’re not into tenderizing it, giving it both a rub and a soak, it won’t come out as tasty.” Hana practically inhales her first piece, while Hanzo is still chewing. McCree earns a loud approving hum from Hana.

“Plus, the old man doesn’t like _rubbing meat_ —as much as I do.”

Hanzo audibly gulps his first piece, staring at McCree with red ears and an intrigued expression. Jesse obliviously continues,

“If you want meat to melt in your mouth you have to love it _good_.” There’s a southern drawl on that last word, a hint of a haughty smirk. Hana is now also making a strange expression although hers teeters between amused and disgusted.

“I’m not so sure you’re talking about this steak anymore, Neighborhood Cowboy.” Hana responds.

Hanzo chokes mid-process of swallowing his second piece. Hana automatically starts to pat on his back to help, except her next words make McCree also choke:

“Careful not to choke on McCree’s _thick_ meat.”

Hanzo swiftly slides the hat from the top of his head to in front of his face, hiding the red hues of his face due to the conversation and the lack of oxygen. Jesse gets a grip on himself sooner, and although he finds Hanzo’s hiding gesture endearing, McCree cares _significantly_ about that.

“Please don’t barf in that hat, it’s my favorite.” Hanzo coughs out an apology but refuses to move the hat from his face. In fact, he leans into the hat more as if exhausted with the current debacle.

McCree doesn’t know what to do or say further. This feeling is what causes him to stab three large-cut pieces of steak on the plate and shove them eagerly in his mouth; poorly gaging how much meat could fit in his face hole. At least he had an excuse to not continue conversation. His stuffed mouth also prevented him from saying anything that would dig him further into the proverbial rabbit hole.

On the other hand, this food-shoveling panic response did nothing but give Hana more fuel.

“Now is not the time to show how much meat you can stuff into your mouth Jesse. He’s not even looking!”

McCree’s eyebrows furrow together; shooting Hana a “what the fuck?” look. Yet, her words did get the cowboy hat to fall off Hanzo’s face. All parties excluding Hana (who is enjoying herself too much) have bright red faces. Jesse’s red because one, now he _really_ has Hanzo’s full attention and two, if his mouth wasn’t stuffed he may have commented back _he could definitely fit more._

Maybe that’s why he chews a little faster so he can say it.

When he swallows, there’s a loud gulp. Hana leans against the edge of the plastic lemonade stand table and looks at her phone casually. McCree can’t even open his mouth to start a witty response before she continues teasing:

“Oh, and you can swallow a load that big too?”

McCree is beyond the embarrassment stage now. His expression morphs to one of “I am sick of your shit,” clear as the condensation on the side of the lemonade pitcher. There was no easy way out of the situation for Jesse and especially not with his dignity. So he stands tall, spurs clank with the weight of his feet, as a calf crosses behind the other.

“Hana, I have received more _meat_ in a week than you have in your lifetime. I don’t think you want me to elaborate on my sausage experiences.”

Hana cringes, Jesse smirks. He knew he could gross her out.

“But I think I know someone who does.” The teen replies, as eyes shift from McCree to Hanzo.

Hanzo stutters and fails to produce a response the second he realizes he’s been referred to. His hand shifts to rub his neck, and he shuts up momentarily to compose himself. It looks like the composure doesn’t hold well and he deflates a moment later, cursing in another language.

“This is the weirdest encounter thus far in America. I’m not sure how to respond.”

McCree commends him for his honesty. Hana steals another bite at the steak as Hanzo sips his iced tea. A gentle breeze rolls through and a cloud briefly blocks out the sun.

“But you _do_ wanna fuck him, right?” Hana blurts with a mouthful of half chewed steak, like she was just asking about the weather. The casualness of a small talk subject is what kills McCree. His sex life was a joke to her, merely entertainment from afar. Hell, she was looking at her phone as she said it!

Hanzo mid-sip spits the drink back into his cup and covers his mouth at his action. McCree has the urge to whistle and pretend Hanzo’s next response wasn’t intriguing.

“Jesse will eventually have to retrieve and earn his hat back. That is all I will say.” Hanzo stabs several pieces of the remaining steak with his fork and sets off toward his house without a comment more. McCree is left there awestruck at how the ridiculous situation turned out.

Hana even has the audacity to mimic the doctor from down the road and say, “You’re welcome.” In the same expectant tone.

“Ya know what? Fuck you but also, thanks Hana.” McCree has now learned he must have a reasonable amount of sex appeal as well as means on how to obtain his hat. Without Hana, no way in hell would he dare to risk cheesy, no, _meaty_ pickup lines on such an attractive and possibly interested man.

She went ahead and did it for him. What an uncalled for (but it worked out in his favor, so) nice gesture.

When Hana walks off to her house with the plate of steak all for herself, McCree isn’t even mad. The sly witty wingwoman earned it.

 


	2. Operation: Hat Retrieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: if you thought that the sexual meat innuendos would stop at the sex scene boy do I have some news for you.
> 
> I absolutely ruined the mood in like two places with meat references. They were too good to not use.

It takes an hour for McCree to mentally motivate himself, freshen up, and put on his best briefs with little pistols on them before strolling over to the Shimada household front door. His fist doesn’t even have the chance to touch the solid hardwood to knock before the door flies open. He’s met with the person who Hana referred to earlier as “carrot” and it takes a second too long for McCree to recall the name _Genji._

But the man merely apologizes, saying he was going to head over a neighbor’s house and that Jesse was welcome inside. McCree asks if Hanzo is home and if he can get his hat back, and immediately is welcomed inside.

“He’s home, just take off your shoes here. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

Genij lied when he said he was in the kitchen, but the man was out the door by the time McCree turned around to ask his next best guess to the whereabouts of his brother. Jesse was all alone in the kitchen save for some very sleek expensive looking kitchen appliances. Not that he looked, but the fridge was awfully barren for someone who had two ovens and an extra-large gas stove.

“They just moved here Jesse, don’t judge.” He thinks to himself.

Jesse decides the kitchen was fruitless in finding Hanzo. He’s too scared of the high ceiling echoing to call out his name, so instead he moves forward and wanders down the closest hallway. There’s a room at the end with quiet goovy music playing; the door wide open. Once within close enough proximity he gathers enough courage to uneasily call out Hanzo’s name.

Moments pass before the man pops his head out the doorframe. A quizzical look on his face until he sees Jesse. Immediately he lets it be known that his brother let him inside before heading out, and he just came for his hat.

Hanzo abstains from saying, “You will have to make me cum for the hat.”

He certainly thinks it though, as he beckons McCree into the master suite with a wave of his hand. Jesse is intrigued with how spacious the room is. The hints of granite countertops from the halfway open bathroom door, to the king-sized bed. The shag rug on the floor is an unexpected piece, as is the organized shelf of vinyl.

It’s as if his mind knew Hanzo was shirtless and deliberately looking everywhere but the man in front of him.

His eyes catch onto a familiar sight—his beloved hat, resting superstitiously in the middle of the massive bed. Jesse even quietly exclaims, “Hey, my hat!” Hanzo hums in approval.

“You said I had to ‘earn’ my hat back. What do have to do?” Jesse questions, straight to the point. He has an objective.

“What are you willing to do?” Hanzo shoots back, while heading over to the nearest nightstand and lighting an incense. He has his bare back to Jesse and the cowboy certainly finds it distracting. The question fully registers in his head.

“Uh, what are your limits?” Jesse questions, as it dawns on him he has no idea what he is getting into for a stupid hat.

“My limits,” Hanzo pauses to blow out the small flame on the incense, “Are whatever yours are, honestly.” A rich musky smell hits McCree’s nostrils seconds later, as do the weight of his words.

Quite frankly, Jesse is at a loss for how to respond appropriately, but he does know he wants to engage. He will do whatever it takes to get his hat back, and damn it all to hell if he isn’t a little bit turned on already from the lemonade stand hints.

Maybe that is why he quietly says, “Try me.”

Hanzo’s head picks up at that, and he turns only his head to arch an eyebrow at McCree before turning around fully. The walk he does to stand directly in front of Jesse is practically a prowl.

“Can I hug you?” He asks plainly. Jesse hugs him in response, leaning down slightly and firmly bringing them together.

“Can I kiss your neck?” It’s a whisper now, but that mouth is so hot and wet and close to McCree’s ear it doesn’t need to be any louder. The goosebumps on Jesse’s neck are enough of an answer, but Hanzo waits until McCree says yes in a slightly raspy voice.

Hands wander innocently along the cowboy’s biceps, they teeter along his shoulders and briefly dip to his shoulder blades, rubbing his back as he sucks a dark mark into existence on Jesse’s neck.

The attention has McCree feeling hot and toasty, in more places than others. There’s a trail of wet kisses up and down his neck that remind him he’s just standing still in an embrace. He whispers a soft, “Can I?” as his hands lightly rub Hanzo’s waist. When he hears a hum of approval his hands grip the man’s waist firmly. Using the same amount of pressure Jesse rubs up and down his waist before the hands wander.

When Hanzo starts to bite at his neck Jesse tilts his head to the side as he melts.

Adrenalin surges through him and he has half the mind to groan. Hands find Hanzo’s hip blades to squeeze. Those hands pull down slightly on Hanzo’s pants, and Jesse is blissfully aware that the shorts barely hang onto his hips.

Hanzo tugs at Jesse’s shirt, a hand sliding down to the belt buckle as soon as McCree steps away to take off his shirt. By the time the shirt is off, his buckle is undone. He fights back a smile from Hanzo’s coy tactic, with his intentions now clear. McCree was into it; he slowly unzips his fly and quickly shimmies off the pants.

“Is this how you want me?” Jesse teases.

“Almost.” He still had underwear on, which Hanzo wasn’t a fan of.

They resume the embrace. McCree’s hands much more confident in tugging down Hanzo’s shorts. There is a rewarding feeling McCree gets when he feels an obstruction at the front of Hanzo resisting the elastic of his shorts. The lip bite Hanzo graces him with when his hands slide forward, ghosting over the bulge to pull the elastic down by the front, is erotic. Jesse curses on his breath when Hanzo aligns their hips together and grinds in time with the groovy background music.

It’s déjà vu, except they’re not on a neon-lit dancefloor and there’s significantly less clothing on with a lot more hardon.

There’s a hickey on Jesse’s neck and a thinly clothed cock grinding against his own. _They haven’t even kissed yet,_ which Jesse considers an abomination that he hasn’t had his lips on Hanzo yet. With one enthusiastic hip roll McCree leans down to Hanzo’s ear and asks for a kiss, southern drawl thick as honey. Hanzo obliges, hand suddenly under Jesse’s chin and guiding the man’s lips towards his own.

It’s as if someone shoved all the humidity of the hottest summer day into the room as their lips and hips moved as one.

Hanzo could _probably_ get off to grinding and tongue alone. McCree on the other hand could _absolutely_ get off to their current movements; his hands at Hanzo’s sides, firmly holding their bodies together.

Not like Hanzo would ever move away without more to promise—which is exactly what he does. He beckons McCree over to the bed. The hat in center is moved off to the side and Jesse hastily takes its place in the center of the bed.

Hanzo lays with him, hand immediately on Jesse’s clothed erection. One moan from the cowboy and Hanzo sees the opportunity to slip his hand under the waistband; rubbing deviously along the underside of Jesse’s cock.

All the while their tongues danced. Jesse hoped he wasn’t drooling, however also considered that Hanzo did not care. Jesse pondered if sloppy and wet mouth was a turn on for Hanzo as much as it was for himself.

His thoughts interrupted by teeth on his lower lip; tantalizing bites on the center of his pout. The pull on his swollen lip and pleasant sting makes his dick twitch.

Hanzo resorts to gripping around his length and stroking at the base, which has McCree breaking their kiss to moan. The husky grunts and breathless moans the lewd cowboy could make whilst maintaining full eye contact were practically pornographic.

Hanzo began leaving featherlight kisses all around Jesse’s face and neck as soon as a tan hand finds his own bare cock. McCree completely skipped any clothed teasing; he waited long enough for Jesse to have half a mind to touch him. There’s soft sighs and hisses between kisses once that foreign hand finds a rhythm.

It’s not much longer until both start to become more vocal. There’s cursing of both Japanese and Spanish until finally, Hanzo caves to his earlier desires and asks:

“Can I fuck you?” _You sexy lewd cowboy._

“Was beginning to think ya wouldn’t ask.”

The time it takes to grab the nearest lube bottle is insignificant in Jesse’s mind. It’s the same amount of time it takes for him to be naked, face down on the bed with his ass elevated in the air and his cock pressed into a pillow. It’s even more insignificant when there’s a tongue licking the underside of his balls as a finger eases its way into his asshole. There’s a low groan that comes with the second finger and pleading quiet whine for more when those two fingers find his prostate. Those fingers stretch out slowly within him and with the way McCree reacts, Hanzo is on the verge of getting on the ground and worshipping the man. Quicker than expected McCree feels prepared, and lets Hanzo know.

Hanzo drizzles lube on his dick like mustard on a hotdog.

He even rubs his length along Jesse’s asshole, like a hot wiener between two perfectly toasted buns.

When McCree feels something hot and smooth prod his asshole, he plants his hands firmly on his own butt and spreads his cheeks wide for Hanzo, who says something low and lustful in Japanese. Whatever he said McCree could guarantee it was obscene. The tone made him harder.

The groan Hanzo makes is lewd as his cock sinks into Jesse’s snug asshole. There’s another mutter of Japanese, and this time Jesse nearly begs for the translation.

“You feel as hot as you look, cowboy.”

Jesse’s side of face and chest were flush against the bed, but the statement makes him arch his ass higher in the air. He willingly pushes back; taking in more of Hanzo’s cock and causing his back muscles to flex in a way that made Hanzo’s eyes follow greedily.

McCree feels hands gently settle over his still spreading his ass, before Hanzo’s asks if he could move. Jesse grants permission only to feel the long cock within him pull out almost all the way incredibly slowly. Hanzo breathes sharply through his nostrils somewhere above Jesse and that gives him a sense of pride knowing Hanzo is that turned on.

“Was that okay?” Hanzo asks. He sounds nearly undone.

Jesses response is to shift his weight backward and sink Hanzo’s cock back into his asshole on his own, slightly faster than before. Hanzo moans at the sight and feeling, and sets a gradually increasing pace of in and out, in and out. He alters the angle slightly every few thrusts, reveling in the way Jesse twitches and moans his name in syllables.

McCree cries out when Hanzo’s shaft rubs his prostate just right. If he kept that motion Jesse wouldn’t last much longer.

As if the man plowing him heard his thoughts, Hanzo pulls out. Jesse could feel his cock rest on the small of his back as Hanzo leans over him fully, kissing his shoulder. There’s a husky voice right behind his ear moments later asking, “Ride me?”

Jesse McCree is all too happy to oblige, flipping their positioning with relative ease. While Jesse positioned both to his liking Hanzo showered the nearest part of Jesse in kisses. He ends up sitting in Hanzo’s lap, their chests pressed together as he sinks down to the base on Hanzo.

Hanzo leans back momentarily and grabs the cowboy hat, placing it rightfully on Jesse’s head as he adjusted to having Hanzo in him once again. They remain holding each other tightly, open wet mouth kisses shared eagerly among half lidded eyes to watch as Jesse adjusted to Hanzo again. The sighs of pleasure from Hanzo were nothing but encouragement to move, and the cautiously small bounces were in turn rewarded with Hanzo’s hand wrapped around Jesse’s cock.

Hanzo thoroughly pumps Jesse’s cock, base to tip. Thumb rubbing along the underside with increased pressure right below the tip, which elicits his name from Jesse’s lips. Hanzo continues to jack him off only until he leaned back to lay down.

By now, McCree is fully flushed in the face. One hand holding his hat to his head while the other on Hanzo’s abs for support. He rides slowly at first, his cock and balls bouncing erotically with the motion.

There was a certain sultry aspect of Jesse leaning back, hands shifting to find support on Hanzo’s legs. His hat was tipped forward just enough to not fall off from the lean. Those chocolate brown irises peeking out from under the rim of the hat combined with a fully exposed view, is _almost_ enough to throw Hanzo over the edge and cum.

What makes Hanzo unravel is watching Jesse rapidly increase his pace of riding, feeling the sensation of muscles clench around his cock as Jesse’s hips spasmed. The onslaught of oncoming sensations drove the cowboy out of rhythm with his climax; spilling seed all over Hanzo’s stomach, chest, and a little in his hair whilst Jesse still rode his cock with every ounce of energy he had left. He only stops when Hanzo’s hands fly up to grip the man’s waist, firmly pressing his hips as far up as he can against Jesse as he cums inside.

They remain together like that for a minute, unmoving and lost in sensation.

Jesse is the first to move, slowly shifting is weight onto his knees as he removes himself from Hanzo’s flaccid cock. The action elicits a “Hah,” from Hanzo, which in turn makes Jesse chuckle affectionately.

They work together to clean themselves up. Jesse wiping down Hanzo’s chest as he removes the cum from his hair. The messy comfort is neatened, tainted pillows lazily discard to the floor. Hanzo offers Jesse fresh underwear and the option to sleepover. Really, it’s just an excuse for the post sex cuddling to turn into a nap. McCree tiredly agrees.

* * *

 

Hana is now adorning Rayban shades, as she sips a glass of her own lemonade from a bendy straw.

The summer day is pleasant; partly cloudy with a fifteen percent chance of showers. The sun glaring harshly down on the lemonade stand says a zero percent chance is more likely.

Condensation drips along two pitchers, one of ice tea and the other of lemonade. There’s a fly that lands on the handle of the pitcher, and although Hana would swat it away her attention is more focused on a particular front door.

Two men emerge from the household. A cowboy hat atop one head.

“Jesse got his hat back.”

Hana sips the last of her lemonade. The straw begins to make slurping noises as air bubbles make their way up the straw. She sticks out her hand to the man wearing a black Hawaiian shirt cover in skulls.

Gabriel Reyes drops a slightly dusty, giant wad of singles into Hana’s hand.

Someone lost a bet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I wanted both of the boys to be both a top and bottom, but I got like 2k words into the sex scene and decided to save switch Hanzo and McCree for another fic. It's also 03:00, I have cramps, and really just want this fic to be done. 
> 
> Fun Fact: first time writing explicit m/m! It was a good time.
> 
> This was kinda meant to be bad in a hilarious way, leave you with a good feeling and a stupid smile on your face.  
> Let me know how this turned out if you have the time! :D


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